Worth
by anzafire
Summary: Post-Bad Reputation; Emma apologizes to Ms. Carlisle after her outburst in the teacher's lounge. The recently widowed woman offers advice for her current predicament.


You're barely breathing when you arrive back in your office; a whirlwind of emotions has left you drained of any coherent thought or possible explanation to the can of chaos you've just opened.

You think about calling down to the office and heading home early, but that would only make you look guilty.

You're not guilty, and you really need to work harder at convincing yourself of that.

He is the one who slept around. He is the one who lied to you. You had every right to call him out on it.

Maybe you could have done it a little quieter. Maybe you could have done it without hurting Ms. Carlisle...oh, gosh...Ms. Carlisle.

The woman had just lost her husband and you accused her of having an illicit relationship with the teacher of the year.

Now you really feel ashamed.

It takes several days and a bouquet of flowers for you to muster up the courage to speak to the long-tenured teacher. Even after the initial shock of what you've done has worn off, your more nervous for this apology then you were for your almost-wedding.

She doesn't know you're coming, and probably isn't expecting someone to make the trek to her second-floor classroom, at the end of the hallway where it has been for the thirty-six years she's been teaching here, especially forty minutes after school hand ended for the week. Most teachers danced through the doorway the moment their obligated time to stay after school had ended, and students had fled the premisses long ago.

You hear a sniffle and bite your lip, hands fiddling together as you close your eyes and take a deep breath, forcing yourself in.

You knock twice at the hard wood and Ms. Carlisle immediately dabs at her eyes with a tissue before putting her glasses on to see who's found her in such a state.

You half expect her to make a nasty comment as you did to her, but as she pulls herself together, she motions for you to draw closer. The traces of a sad smile forms on her face and you think she had a feeling you'd be seeing her sooner or later.

"Take a seat, dear," She says, then blows her nose as you pull a chair from a table near the front of the room near her desk. You're trying your hardest not to cringe as the tissue falls into a wastebasket, but your heart lifts a little as the elderly woman pumps a squirt of hand sanitizer in the palm of her hand.

You sigh and cross your legs, clear your throat and put on your brave face, "Ms. Carlisle, I...um...came to apologize. My behavior in the teacher's lounge was just...so out of line...and...so inappropriate. I was so insensitive and rude and..." You're looking at anything but her face as you babble senselessly, your hands trying to use gestures to demonstrate just how worked up this is making you, "...I truly am sorry, for your loss and...I'm so sorry I used it in an argument. It was petty and selfish and—"

"Oh, Emma," She says quietly, cutting you off and forcing your wide eyes to her wrinkled face, "You know," She starts and you're about ready to burst from the emotional tension in the room, "I've been doing this for so long...I've dealt with a lot of teachers...good ones...not so good ones...really, really terrible ones...and there's always something...some drama that takes away from the quality of education that we give the kids here. Whether it's budget cuts or someone calling another out for feeding the paper shredder wrong, it never does a lick of good for the kids."

You feel tears pulling at your eyes and you swallow a massive lump in your throat while she continues, still holding your now-watery gaze, "And in all that thirty-odd years of teaching, I believe this is the first time I'm ever receiving an unprovoked apology for a wrong made against me."

Now your face is in your hands and your shoulders are jerking and your breath comes out in hysterical pants and you can't stop the warm, salty tears from spilling down your pale cheeks. You try to choke out another apology, this one, you aren't even sure what for. But you're embarrassed and ashamed, and Ms. Carlisle rolls her oversized leather chair closer and pulls your hands from your face, tilting your chin so she can meet your resistant eyes once more.

"Emma Pillsbury, you have been hurt by someone you thought you could trust with every little secret you ever dreamed to tell."

You wonder how she knows this, but her eyes sparkle with wisdom she's waiting to fill you with, so you let her continue, "I really misjudged you, my dear, and for that I owe _you_ an apology."

Your forehead crinkles in confusion as your composure starts to show again. She makes to open her mouth, but smiles and takes the sanitizer from her desk, motioning for you to open your hands for her to distribute a fair amount to you.

The act is so selfless that you almost stop breathing as the alcohol-based liquid seeps into your skin, effectively killing ninety-nine-point-nine-nine-percent of germs, and that point-one-percent that it doesn't will always terrify you, but under the caring watch of Ms. Carlisle, you feel protected from them, "When you first arrived here, three years ago now, I thought you may have been the dippiest, hokiest, most pathetic excuse for a counselor I'd ever seen."

The words sting, but you deserve them after what you said about her earlier in the week —

"But I was so, so wrong. I know we certainly haven't been close colleagues, but I've seen you rise far above the labels I placed on you, and prove yourself time and time again that you are an educator of the highest degree, who loves her job, is devoted to the students she serves and will sacrifice most anything for them.

"You are anything but dippy, you're probably one of the smartest individuals on staff. I thought you were hokey by the way you dress, but now, I see you're one of the most adorable beings on the planet and your wardrobe is fantastic. Most women, myself included, would kill to be able to pull off some of the insane blouses that you do." You blush and smooth the orange pencil skirt you sported that day before listening to her final point being restated, "And you are the best damn counselor this school has had in ages. Your compassion for the students, and your ability to listen and reason with them is like nothing I've ever experienced. I've seen the results of students that sit in your office, and you are one incredible woman, Emma."

You mouth a 'thank you,' as you wipe a few tears from below your eyes, wishing you had just as many nice things to say about the woman before you as she did you — but you really haven't been paying attention, clearly, otherwise you'd have known that her husband recently died.

"I also saw you falling in love for a married man; and honey, my heart just ached for you."

You blink a few times slowly, had it been that obvious?

"Will Schuester really is a great guy. He's been teacher of the year for the past three, he loves his subject and teaches it exceptionally well...then he took over Glee club, something I've heard you had a hand in," She smiles and you finally smile back, hands twisting in your lap, "And if I may say so myself, he really was looking sharp at those Akafella shows," She winked and you let out a little giggle, "And I saw the way you were looking at him during those shows...and how you tried to marry someone you didn't love to get over him...You really did so well, at never allowing your feelings to put his marriage in jeopardy. You truly deserve recognition for that. I can only imagine the heartache it caused you."

All signs of laughter are gone as your face contorts to ugly memories and you want to cry once more as Ms. Carlisle puts a heavy hand on your lap and you sigh, "And once you had him, you let him go, for his sake, so he could learn who he was before he could learn who you were...once again, you were so selfless...and then...he hurt you. He hurt you in ways that every lover fears."

"We-we weren't, um...like that...we...never..."

Ms. Carlisle smiles again, "You just hadn't gotten there yet, dear. I'm sure you would have."

You flush — you're not sure about that. They could make a comedy out of your lack of a love life and it would be a top seller, you're sure of it. Suddenly, the older woman gasps a little, a realization dawning over her.

"You've never been intimate, hm?"

And now you're prepared to cry again — it's so embarrassing and you—

"Sweetheart," She says kindly, taking your hands before you can cover your face, "It's nothing to be ashamed of. Today's society says that if you haven't 'gotten your freak on,' as the kids say it," You smile, because they don't, "By a certain age that you're some sort of loveless prude, but that's just not true." She rubs your shoulder comfortingly, and the human contact that you lack so much of feels so good, "You're just waiting for the right person. Someone who will understand your...qualms and not be afraid to wait for the time that you are ready. There is absolutely no shame in that, dear."

"If...if I weren't so...If I had just...Maybe he wouldn't have had to run into the arms of other woman, if I had only—"

"No, no, no, no, Emma," Her voice changes and suddenly Ms. Carlisle experienced eyes meet you once more, "You do not blame yourself when a man cheats on you, understand? It hurts so much and trying to find an explanation for it...It doesn't help, alright?"

You know you shouldn't ask, you don't want to rub salt into her wound, but now you really want to know how she dealt with the issue in the past, "What...what did you do?"

She takes a deep breath and sits back in her chair, memories flooding the front of her mind, "The same thing you did. I called him out on it. He wasn't having a full-blown affair, but it was enough that..." You catch her point and nod for her to please continue, "You will never understand it, and you'll think about it long after the dust has cleared."

"Wait, it was...the same person? Your husband? You...took him back?"

Her weak, sad smile finds her face once more, "My husband, yes...some gorgeous blonde at his work...they were constantly flirting and hanging on each other...and I caught him...and told him not to come home that night...You'd never seen a more pathetic excuse for a man than when he tried round one of apologizing."

"You, um...didn't take him back right away?"

"Oh, no. He needed to realize what he lost."

"But...you still loved him, right?"

"Of course, I did." Ms. Carlisle pulls open the top drawer of her desk and a framed picture taken forty years prior is placed into your hands. A sandy-haired man holds her formerly-thin body as they kiss on the beach, "I loved him the moment I saw him, and I knew that we could survive any obstacle, even one as big and difficult as infidelity."

"He...um, Will...he gave me...flowers. Asked me to...look at him, the way I used to..."

"When your eyes get all wide and dreamy and you've got that goofy little smile on?" You laugh and sigh, nodding, "Oh, honey, flowers are only the beginning of the parade of apologies you will get from him."

You fiddle with the hem of your skirt, "Well, how will I know? When...to take him back? Because right now, all I want to do is run down to the choir room and jump into his arms and tell him I forgive him, and that I still love him and let him kiss me and play with my hair—"

"Someday," She clears her throat, cutting off your babble, "Someday, you'll be able to do that. But not now...now, you're still hurting. He needs to see what he's lost. If you want him back, if he wants you back, you've got to make him realize what he had, how perfect you were for him. You've got to make him see that some things are worth fighting for."

Your breath catches in your throat as she says the words, and you nod, soaking them up. She eyes the clock and it disheartens you a little, you could sit here talking to the older woman all evening, you certainly don't have anything better to do.

"I don't mean to cut this short, dear," She says sadly, "But I've got dinner with my sister in an hour and I need to head home."

You nod, feeling the lump rising in your throat and you make a last apology, "I really am sorry, for what I said. You didn't deserve that, you're so kind...and thank you, for all the advice, I really, really appreciate it and—"

She chuckles, "It was my pleasure, darling. And I accept your apology...I forgive you, truly...but...there is a way, perhaps, you could make it up to me."

"Anything," You whisper.

"I, well...I never had any kids...and...usually, after a husband or wife dies, the remaining partner and their children would go to the grave, plant some flowers...I just can't seem to find the strength to go on my own...And you don't have to come, of corse, but..."

"I'd be honored to join you, Ms. Carlisle."

The following morning is a bit blustery, but it's March in Ohio, it could be snowing, so you don't complain. You've got your designer rain boots on over a pair of skinny jeans that make your legs look amazing, and you're feeling all-around good about yourself for the first time this week.

"Are you ever not adorable?" Ms. Carlisle jokes as she starts her car and you slide in the passenger's seat, "Thank you for coming with me, dear. It means a lot...I've been wanting to do this for weeks...but I just haven't been able to."

The drive to the cemetery is spent talking about your home in Appalachia, where you went to college and all sorts of things she seems to want to know about your life. It's nice, to have someone take an interest in you.

As you pull into the site, your heart drops a little. You've never been to such a place, never had a reason to. Your grandparents died when you were too little to remember and no one else close to you has passed in years; although you realize, you don't really have anyone close to you.

You both step out of the car and you carry a bucket while Ms. Carlisle takes a tray of flowers and you follow a half-pace behind her to where her husband lies in the soggy ground.

She takes a shaky breath and you place the planting items on the ground, away from the front of the tombstone with his name and the year etched on it. You take the flowers from her shaking hands and rest them near the supplies, then you make a move to put a delicate hand on her shoulder, much as she did for you last night, but instead she wraps an arm around you, for support, as tears begin rolling down her face.

You're determined to stay strong for her, and you wrap around her back as the two of you step closer. She stares hard at the name and sighs, quiet for a few minutes before whispering, "Hey, hon...I'm so sorry it took this long for me to get here...it's been...so hard...and..." She laughs humorlessly, "It's times like these that I wish we'd had some kids, so I wouldn't have to cry alone...anyway, this is Emma..." She meets your eyes and you feel like the daughter she never had for a moment, "She works with me, at the school...she's an amazing young woman...she's dealing with some pretty tough things right now, but...if we could get through them," She smiles and rubs your shoulder firmly, "She can too."

The morning is spent planting flowers in relative silence, you're wearing gloves, naturally, and you've got a kneeling pad so you don't get grass stains on your jeans, but Ms. Carlisle jumps right in, hands covered in a healthy layer of earth and knees green, taking the dirt for the man she loved.

Once the gravesite looks a bit more cheery, the two of you stand and you take a few steps back so she can say goodbye to her husband alone.

"Would you like to come back to my house for some tea, dear?" She asks and you nod enthusiastically.

"I'd love to."

You spend the afternoon and early evening in her cozy home, laughing over stories from before Mr. and Mrs. Carlisle became their namesake, crying over hard times and smiling over wedding pictures and trinkets that she'd collected over the years.

As darkness descends on the day, Ms. Carlisle yawns, "Dear, I don't mean to kick you out, but..."

"I understand," You grin, standing, "It's been a long day. But thank you, for taking me with you—"

"Oh, no, no, thank you, Emma. Thank you so much for accompanying me, for listening to an old woman cry over stories and moon over memories..."

"Anytime, really," You bend to hug her, tightly. The company has been wonderful and you really wish you didn't have to leave her, "I mean it, anytime, I'd be more then happy to join you."

"You are a beautiful woman, Emma, inside and out," She leads you to the door, "And Will is going to realize all that he lost, don't you worry about that. Someday," She shakes her head with a laugh, "You'll have stories to share too, my dear. I know you will." You thank her for the tea and her time and speed home, prepared to shower off the dirt that's been looming beneath your skin and curl up to cry yourself to sleep.

As you unlock your door, a small package catches your eye near a potted flower. You smirk, as Ms. Carlisle was correct, the reign of apologies has begun.

You open it once you're safely within the confines of your condo and gasp as an antique music-note broach falls into your hands. It's beautiful, and you feel the tears prick at your eyes as you long to hear the deliverer of the package sing an apology to you, then tuck you into his arms while you fall asleep.

Rather, you shake your head of the thoughts and place it near the flowers you've set in a vase on a shelf in the living room.

Thoughts of Will can't continue to take over your life, you need to remember to let him fight for you, as the wise woman you spent the afternoon with said. You aren't going to spend every sleeping and waking moment consumed with 'what if's and plans to take him back.

But you'll let this shelf become Will's shelf, you'll let his apologies rest there, and you'll leave your heart there for now as well.

You're worth fighting for, and you're finally starting to realize that.

As you crawl into bed, however, you know you'll be dreaming of the stories that you may one day be able to tell, stories of walking down the beach at sunset, not worried about the sand as the man who has your heart walks next to you. Stories of performance nights, where he captures your heart through song. Stories of long kisses that lead to long touches that lead to your first time...you pray that he starts fighting soon. You're starting to look forward to this.

* * *

_In memory of Momma K._


End file.
